


Of Robes and Feasts

by sacredORDINARYdays



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brotherly Love, Gen, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:29:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29573214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacredORDINARYdays/pseuds/sacredORDINARYdays
Summary: Fingolfin blinked at the sight in front of him. Then blinked again.Nope. This clear hallucination was still in his room. Fingolfin tried blinking again, hoping that this would all prove to just be a figment of his imagination.“Nolofinwë, you know I love you, but are you going to just stand there and blink, or come and try on your outfit?”Bless Anairë’s heart. Fingolfin was grateful, he really was, that Anairë picked up his ceremonial wear for the feast tonight, but oh wow.As it was, he was now staring at the robes and garments he was to wear tonight, and they were red and gold. The color of the House of Fëanor. Sometimes, Fingolfin really did wonder if the Valar--or Eru--liked to play tricks on the elves.OR:Fingolfin wears the colors of the House of Fëanor to a feast, and Fëanor wears the colors of Fingolfin. Denial and heartfelt conversations ensue.
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë, Curufin | Curufinwë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Finarfin | Arafinwë & Fingolfin | Nolofinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Finarfin | Arafinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Finarfin | Arafinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	1. Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Half-brother, half-hatred](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23645503) by [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking). 



PREPARATION

Fingolfin blinked at the sight in front of him. Then blinked again. 

Nope. This clear hallucination was still in his room. Fingolfin tried blinking again, hoping that this would all prove to just be a figment of his imagination. 

“Nolofinwë, you know I love you, but are you going to just stand there and  _ blink _ , or come and try on your outfit?” 

Bless Anairë’s heart. Fingolfin was grateful, he  _ really was _ , that Anairë picked up his ceremonial wear for the feast tonight, but  _ oh wow.  _

It was...certainly  _ something. _

“Nolofinwë, stop looking at it like it’s some spawn of Ungoliant, and  _ put it on.” _

“Anairë darling, were there any other colors? Like blue and silver? Or pink?  _ Any _ other color?” 

Fingolfin’s wife rolled her eyes.

“Nolo, if there were, don’t you think I would’ve  _ got them?  _ I don’t know why, but all the blue and silver were gone. Apparently someone booked the robe I was planning to get a couple days ago, and all the others were  _ not _ flattering, I assure you.”

That was puzzling. No one, in all the millennia that Fingolfin had lived, had  _ ever _ taken the blue and silver colors from the Royal Dress House. 

As it was, he was now staring at the robes and garments he was to wear tonight, and they were  _ red and gold. _ The color of the House of Fëanor. Sometimes, Fingolfin really did wonder if the Valar--or Eru--liked to play tricks on the elves. 

He would concede, they  _ were _ gorgeous, but he was  _ never _ going to live this down. He could already imagine Fëanáro’s smug face, or Eru forbid, the smirking smile of his  _ son _ saying  _ ‘see, I knew you liked uncle Fëanáro.’ _

Which, granted, was true, he did  ~~love ~~ _ tolerate _ his brother, but really, he had a reputation to uphold. 

"Well," Fingolfin said "at least it'll show some family unity."

And it was the first feast held after Fëanor had been reborn, so he supposed he could show some brotherly  ~~ love ~~ tolerance. Not that he'd ever admit that, of course. 

"That's the spirit!" Anairë cheered. 

Then, Aredhel, with all the ill-timing she was born with, strode into the room, the question she had dying on her lips as she caught sight of the garment in the center of the space.

"Manwë's pits," she swore "Turgon's going to have a fit."

Fingolfin could already feel the headache coming on at the thought of Turgon's reaction. He was not exactly known for being Fëanorian friendly. 

Snorting under her breath, she left the room, apparently forgetting why she came into it in the first place. She would probably go hunting with Celegorm, or participate in some other highly riskly sport, but Fingolfin had long since given up on reigning her in. Considering the last time Turgon tried to do that she ended up married with a possessive psychopath, he doubted she would have any trouble going out anytime soon.

Resigning himself to his fate, Fingolfin stared at the deep red robes, skimming over the ornate gold thread. He supposed it could be worse. 

*****************

THE FEAST

Walking through the large, white-gold doors was exactly like Fingolfin thought it'd be. Loud whispers arose the second people caught sight of what he was wearing. Turgon's smiling face turned into a scowl. He supposed he couldn't blame him. He had learned long ago that forgiveness does not equal kindness. 

Fingon, on the other hand, was grinning so wide Fingolfin feared his face would split in half. 

"Really Atar, and you say  _ I  _ hold too much Fëanorian sympathy." Sometimes, Fingolfin really wanted to throttle his child. 

Taking a seat next to Finarfin, donned in his usual white and gold, Fingolfin beat him to the chase. 

" _ Don't. Even." _

Finarfin smirked and raised an eyebrow.

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"Oh  _ sure." _

"It's t--"

Whatever he was going to say was cut off by the announcer welcoming Fëanor, late as usual.  _ Honestly _ , even his children were here already.

As all the heads in the room swiveled around to see the Prince of the Noldor, Fingolfin's thoughts ground to a sudden stop.

_ What was he wearing? _

Finarfin turned around to look at him, eyes filled with mirth, but Fingolfin paid him no mind, too stunned by the sight in front of him. 

Fëanor. Prince of the Noldor. The Spirit of Fire. Fingolfin's brother. Was wearing  _ blue and silver.  _

Distantly, he heard Anairë say " _ oh, _ that's who reserved the robe."

Never.  _ Never  _ in all of Fingolfin's years of being alive, had Fëanor  _ ever _ worn blue and silver together.  _ Never.  _ To do so would be a show of loyalty to the House of Fingolfin. A show of  _ love.  _ Fingolfin didn't think he inspired much of either in Fëanor. 

As his brother stiffly took a seat next to him, Fingolfin managed to croak out a "Why?"

Finarfin, ever the gossip, leaned closer to catch the response. 

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

The sentiment would have been a lot more convincing had Fëanor  _ not _ been wearing Fingolfin's house colors. 

Oh the irony. The son of Indis wearing the colors of the son of Míriel, and the son of Míriel wearing the colors of the son of Indis. 

Fingolfin noticed for the first time how every single Fëanorian was wearing either blue, silver, white, or gold, and judging by how Finrod was staring at Celegorm and Curufin, both donned in white robes and a golden cloak respectively, he wasn't the only one. 

The rest of the evening passed in intrigued silence and harried murmurs, as the curious crowd stared at the three Houses of the sons of Finwë.

When the last guest finally left, the Fëanorians moved to leave. A flash of disappointment seared through Fingolfin. Really, what had he been expecting? Fëanor had already shown so much respect,  _ choosing _ to wear his colors, what more did he want?

( _ A brother, _ the traitorous part of him whispered).

Before he could step out the doors, though, Maedhros grabbed Fëanor's sleeve, the two talking in hushed tones. 

Fingolfin (and Finarfin, because he was a busybody) could only make out the ending, "don't be a  _ craven, _ Atar," but it was enough for them to stare at each other incredulously.  _ Craven? _ One could call Fëanor many things, but  _ craven _ certainly wasn't one of them. 

He shook out of his reverie when he noticed Fëanor walking towards him.

Placing a hand on Fingolfin's shoulders, and boring into his eyes, Fëanor said contemptuously, "You are my brother."

_ What? _

_ Ossë's teeth, had Mandos made him go mad? _

"I-yes? What? I thought that was established?"

Fëanor grunted impatiently. Apparently Fingolfin was not understanding his point. 

This time, he placed his other hand on Finarfin's shoulder as well. From the way his brother jolted, it was clear that both sons of Indis were lost on  _ what the Varda _ Fëanor was getting at. 

"You are my brothers," He enunciated, "and I love you."

No amount of Royal Decorum Training could have prevented his jaw from dropping to the floor. Finarfin's eyes were bulging, and his mouth was open. Okay, so he didn't mishear. 

Was this some sort of test? Experiment? Doubt rose in Fingolfin's heart. Fëanor had never cared before, why would he start now?

As if sensing his thoughts, his older brother continued, "and I  _ mean it." _

Vaguely, he could hear the crashing of plates as Finrod dropped the stack he was holding. 

"I-"

What was he supposed to say? He  _ did _ love his brother, but could hundreds of years of bad blood be washed away just like that?

Shifting away from them, Fëanor assured, "you do not have to say anything you do not mean, I am well aware of where I stand in terms of your affections."

Anyone who didn't know Fëanor as well as Nolofinwe did wouldn't have caught the flash of hurt and  _ hope _ that shone in his eyes for a second, before fading away. 

He knew his answer.  _ Yes,  _ hundreds of years of bad blood could be washed away because  _ he loved his brother _ , and for the first time, he knew that  _ his brother loved him back. _

Standing up and stalking over to Fëanor, Fingolfin glared at him, before pulling him into a crushing hug. 

"I love you too, idiot. Next time,  _ don't forget it." _

He felt more than saw Finarfin join the embrace, and warmth seeped into his bones when Fëanor wrapped his calloused hands around the both of them. 

The broken plates that Finrod had picked up fell onto the floor. Again. 

He saw Finarfin whisper something into Fëanor's ear, something even he was not privy to, and smiled. 

They were the three sons of Finwë, united at last. 

Straightening and detangling himself from their limbs, Fëanor brushed his cloak behind him, smiling a small, genuine smile, one that Fingolfin and Finarfin had seen so little of  _ before _ , turned around, and walked out, cape flying dramatically behind him. From the corner of his vision, he saw Curufin press a box into Finrod's hands, saw Finrod pale and gape in disbelief and  _ awe _ , but by the time he looked up from whatever was inside the box, Curufin and his family were already out the door. Huh. He supposed Fëanor was not the only one making amends today. 

Aredhel whistled, "sign me up for uncle Fëanor's drama class next year."

He would never have believed that  _ that _ had happened, but he caught sight of Fëanor's dark blue cloak, rimmed with silver, and smiled. 

Looking down at his robes suddenly, he supposed that perhaps red and gold were not such bad colors after all. 


	2. Curufin and Finrod

CELEGORM & CURUFIN: PREPARATION

“You want to  _ wear  _ that _?” _

Staring at his brother, donned in a deep burgundy robe, lined with white, and a striking Arafinwëan gold cloak, it was obvious that Curufin was paying homage to the colors of the House of Arafinwë, no matter the burgundy. 

Celegorm peered at his brother cautiously, as if he’d been replaced with an imposter. Curufin supposed he couldn’t really blame his brother, he’d  _ never  _ even  _ think _ about doing something like this Before. 

“Yes, Celegorm, I want to wear  _ this,  _ and  _ you’re  _ going to wear  _ that,” _ pointing at a pure white garment, delicately trimmed with gold, Curufin stared at his brother expectantly. 

Placing a slightly shaking hand on his younger brother’s forehead, Celegorm questioned, “Curufin? Are you feeling okay? If you’re down with a fever…”

Curufin scowled, eyes glaring at Celegorm before glancing pointedly at the robes. His older brother groaned, muttering something about, “at least it could be  _ worse _ , Oromë forbid I come to see the day that Atar wears Nolofinwëan colors.”

Curufin paused here, seeming to fight back a smile, before moving to help his brother put on the new clothes in response to Celegorm’s raised eyebrow. 

“So why am I wearing this again?”

“ _ Because,  _ Celegorm, we have to apologize somehow.”

Celegorm looked skeptically at the robes. 

“And this is an apology?”

Curufin huffed, “as much of an apology as  _ he’s  _ going to get.”

Celegorm let out a short, sharp laugh. Then, his face sobered. 

“We did mess up, didn’t we?”

Curufin paused in the middle of buttoning up the back, then straightened abruptly, grabbing a dark box and tossed it to his brother. 

“What’s this?”

“Just look at it,” Curufin growled. 

Most would be offended, but Celegorm knew that growl meant that Curufin was an  _ itty-bitty _ self-conscious. He looked at the box, curious to what could draw this reaction from his brother. Seeing what was inside, Celegorm couldn’t stop a startled jerk. 

It was the  _ crown of Nargothrond.  _

Curufin couldn’t help a scoff, “don’t look like that, it’s not a big deal.”

And  _ oh, _ if that wasn’t so Curufin, Celegorm didn’t know what was. Insisting that he was  _ clearly _ unrepentant, when it was  _ clearly _ an apology. 

Placing the crown gently on the nearby nightstand, as Curufin slapped him for moving while he was in the middle of fixing up his robe placement, Celegorm asked, “So, what’s Atar going to think of this?”

Curufin snorted, as if he knew something Celegorm didn’t. 

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll be getting much resistance from him.”

Celegorm regarded him skeptically, before shrugging it off. Curufin had never led them wrong before, well, besides the whole Lúthien debacle (though that was, Celegorm admitted, at least sixty percent his fault), and the Nargothrond incident, but hey, older brothers should be supportive!

Meeting the rest of his family at the front door, Celegorm stopped, aghast at the sight in front of him. Catching his little brother’s smirk, Celegorm knew that  _ Curufin had known,  _ and he didn’t tell him  _ anything,  _ the little punk. 

_ Irmo’s guts,  _ his father was wearing  _ blue and silver.  _ Not only that, but every single person in their family was wearing some variant of blue-and-silver, or white-and-gold. 

Maedhros, he noted wryly, had golden ribbons in his hair, much like a  _ certain  _ cousin. 

Fëanáro, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, regarded his children proudly. 

“I must say, Celegorm, the white does wonders for your complexion. Red never seemed to match your skin tone much.”

Celegorm gaped. Their family was wearing the colors of the  _ children of Indis _ , and all his father had to say was that  _ white  _ matched his  _ complexion? _

Celegorm thought he understood now why so many people called his father insane. 

Well, he supposed that it  _ would _ be a good way to show that he  _ was  _ sorry, and besides, Finrod’s face would be  _ priceless. _

Much cheered, Celegorm dutifully obeyed as Fëanáro shooed them out the door, before leaving them and walking in the opposite direction of the palace. 

Gazing questioningly at Maglor, his brother explained, “Father’s going to make a dramatic entrance.”

Ah. He supposed that made sense. Thought it’d be plenty dramatic enough showing up wearing blue and silver, but who was he to judge? 

Caranthir snorted, saying something about how father was  _ so extra. _

Celegorm glanced at Curufin, and remembered that when they were younger, his brother and Finrod  _ had _ been close friends, being so near in age. Curufin had told him once, that if Finrod ever had a child, no doubt that they’d be close with Curufin’s Tyelpë, and he remembered how Finrod as blushed a bright red in response to Curufin asking when he and Amarië would just  _ get on with it.  _

As Celegorm watched Curufin carefully tuck the box containing his gift to Finrod inside the fold of his robes, he grinned. 

Oh this was going to be  _ so fun.  _

***************

FINROD FELAGUND: THE FEAST

“Presenting, Maedhros Fëanorian, Maglor Fëanorian, Celegorm Fëanorian, Caranthir Fëanorian, Curufin Fëanorian, Amrod Fëanorian, and Amras Fëanorian!”

Angrod grunted beside him, “couldn’t they leave the ‘Fëanorian’ for the end? Poor guy looks like he’s about to faint.”

Finrod would concede, the announcer did look terrible out of breath, but most of his attention was placed on the still-closed double doors. He didn’t quite know what to feel. He knew that Maedhros, and most of the Fëanorians actually, had sought out Fingon in Mandos, and that Aredhel was still friends with Celegorm, but so far, the only time he had contact with a Fëanorian was when Celebrimbor found him shortly after he’d been re-embodied. Finrod supposed they were penitent, or else they would never have been let out of Mandos, but still, the thought that he wasn’t even  _ worth _ an apology stung. 

The doors screeched opened, and all seven of the Fëanorians marched into the hall. He wasn’t able to wonder where Fëanor himself was, after he caught sight of Celegorm and Curufin. 

They were--

He couldn’t even form a coherent thought, unable to do anything even after Curufin caught his eyes and gave him a stiff nod. 

_ Námo’s shins, they were wearing white and gold.  _

Celegorm was perhaps more obvious with his choice of attire, but Finrod  _ knew _ how much meaning went into Curufin wearing even a golden cloak, and white-trimmed robes. 

He barely noticed Fingolfin enter, and it was only until the room went strangely quiet that he caught sight of Fëanáro’s entrance. 

_ Holy Silmaril. Fëanáro was wearing blue and silver. Oh my gosh.  _

The world was ending. Finrod was sure of it. Catching sight of Nolofinwë’s very pale face, he was immediately assured that  _ no, _ his eyes were not broken. Eyes snapping to meet Turgon’s, he asked 

_ “What in the name of Ulmo’s toes is going on here?” _

Turgon stared at him, eyes wide, with an eyebrow raised, as if to say, 

_ You’re asking ME? What makes you think I know what’s going on in our kinslaying cousins’ minds?  _

Turning back to face Curufin, he assessed each part of his robes, and concluded  _ yes, _ for  _ some reason _ , they were wearing Arafinwëan colors. 

The rest of the feast passed by in a blur, and he hardly noticed that it was over until only the three Houses of the sons of Finwë were left. 

As Fëanáro turned to leave, he saw Maedhros grab his father’s arm, and converse quietly with him. 

Absently grabbing plates to bring back to the kitchen, he paused when Fëanor placed a hand on both Fingolfin’s and his father’s shoulders. 

“You are my brothers,” his uncle said firmly, “and I love you.”

Wait.  _ What?! _

This. This had to be a joke, right? Catching his cousin’s face, he noted that Turgon looked positively  _ scandalized. _ Aredhel looked impressed. Curufin looked  _ happy? What? _

Finrod zoomed back into the conversation between his uncles and father, and heard Fëanor say, “and I  _ mean it.” _

He noted distantly that someone had dropped some plates. Then he realized that someone was  _ him.  _

Finrod thought he could be excused from a breach in decorum in response to the fact that  _ Uncle Fëanáro loved Uncle Fingolfin and his father. _

Then, before he knew what was happening, Fëanáro, Fingolfin, and his father were hugging, and apparently, his reaction speed was horrible, because before he knew it, the broken plates he had picked up were back on the floor. 

Finrod was fairly sure that any minute now, he was going to suffer cardiac arrest. 

Then, to top it all off,  _ Curufin _ of all people approached him. 

Strangely, the fifth son of Fëanáro seemed  _ uncertain, _ something Finrod had never seen in him before. Before he could ask anything, Curufin had already placed a box in his hands, and was gripping his arms with all the strength he had acquired in the forge. 

“I-I’m sorry”

“For what?” What was Curufin getting at?

_ Everything,  _ his eyes said.

“You know what,” his mouth said. 

Strangely, this didn’t bother Finrod at all. The shock was dying down, and now, however inappropriate people would call it, he could have hugged his prickly cousin at the moment. 

Looking back down at the box, Finrod curiously pried it open, and upon realizing what it was, his jaw unhinged in a most un-lordly fashion. 

_ It was the crown of Nargothrond.  _

Or, rather, a replica, but  _ still. _

This meant…

This meant  _ so many things. _

_ I’m sorry _

_ I respect you _

_ You deserve it _

_ You’re my cousin, of course I love you _

Which one did Curufin mean?

Then, he remembered the look in his cousin’s eyes.

_ Everything.  _

Snapping his head back up, he saw that Curufin was gone, golden cape flaring behind him as he walked out the door.

A suspicious burning sensation clouded his eyes as he looked back down at the gift. 

He didn’t notice that the tears had already fallen until he tasted salt as his lips pulled into a genuine smile. 

Finrod laughed now, and already he was leaving, broken plates forgotten, planning what he was going to write in his letter to his cousin. Or, if he chickened out, maybe he could just pop by the Fëanorian household. 

He rather thought that they deserved the shock after the  _ many, many _ surprises they threw at him today. 

_ I forgive you, cousin. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finrod, does, in the end, just pop by Fëanor's place, and without explanation, pulls a flabbergasted Celegorm and an insulted Curufin into a hug. Finrod is quite sure he's never been so happy.   
> The entire House of Fëanor worries for his sanity.


End file.
